Darkness Rising: Disciples of the Horned One Volume One (Soul Force Saga Book 1) (31 page)

D
amien allowed
himself an hour’s rest after the battle with Sloan. He wished he’d taken the time to bring his writing supplies so he could let his master know what had happened. He settled for tearing a relatively clean strip of cloth out of one of the dead bandits’ tunics. He conjured a pen and dipped it in the corpse’s fresh blood. A gruesome way to write, but Damien had limited options. He sent the message on its way and stood up.

Most of his power had returned and he figured the rest would regenerate during the short flight south. He leapt in the air and moved along at a modest pace. Below him the hardwood forest gradually gave way to patchy, twisted evergreens. Soon enough the vegetation went away altogether, save for the occasional clump of scraggly grass. Hot, dry wind struck his face.

The badlands spread out before him in shades of brown, gray, and dull orange. Towering mesas dotted the otherwise featureless desert. One of them must house the bandits’ fortress. Damien assumed from the directions the dead bandit had provided that the first mesa he came to flying southeast would be the target.

He wrapped himself in invisibility and flew toward the stone tower. The trip only took five minutes and he soon found himself hovering fifty feet off the ground facing a massive wood-and-iron double door. A well-worn path led up to the gates. It looked like they received regular visitors. Higher up on the rock face narrow slits looked out over the approach. Damien peeked inside and found every third one had a lookout. They all seemed alert and their bows well oiled and in good condition. These men resembled real soldiers rather than scruffy bandits.

Damien landed a short distance away behind some boulders and wracked his brain trying to think how he could get the women and children out in one piece. He could blast the place to pieces easily enough, but at the first sign of trouble the hostages would be killed. That wouldn’t do at all.

A little ways to his left, movement caught Damien’s eye. A narrow head covered in tan fur popped up out of a hole, looked around, and vanished again. A second later the little guy popped up from another hole twenty feet from the first. Damien grinned. The prisoners were underground. A tunnel would be the perfect way to slip them out.

He tipped an invisible salute to the critter that inspired him and flew away. Damien would need a hidden place to dig. The terrain was so open the lookouts would notice at once if he just started flinging dirt around. He circled the mesa, hoping to spot something not too far from the fortress. On the back side a clump of trees grew maybe a mile away. That could work.

Damien slipped through the palm fronds and landed beside a small pit filled with water. He scanned it and found the water pure. There was probably an aquifer deep underground that bubbled up in this little oasis. The bandits must have tapped it as well. They couldn’t survive out here without a good source of water.

Now that he had a starting point Damien needed to find out exactly where the prisoners were. It’d be a hell of a thing to discover he tunneled into a storage room instead of the dungeon. He sat with his back to a palm tree, conjured a spy bug, and connected it to a viewing rectangle.

When he was satisfied with the link Damien sent the spy buzzing toward the fortress. The tiny wasp flew through an unwatched arrow slit and flitted down a long, empty corridor. He needed to find stairs. The corridor ended at an intersection and Damien guided the bug left, deeper into the fortress. Halfway down the hall he reached a loose-fitting door. The bug crawled underneath and went down a set of steps to a massive open chamber filled with benches and tables. There had to be enough seats for five hundred people. At the far end of the chamber a pair of guards stood at attention beside a closed door.

That looked promising. The bug slipped through a gap in the frame and flew down another set of stairs. At the bottom was a circular depression filled with water. Now he was getting somewhere. This had to be the bottom floor. Now where was the dungeon?

Two archways led out of the well chamber. Damien had good luck with left before so he tried it again. The spy bug flew into a chamber filled with sacks, crates, and joints of meat hanging from the ceiling. A pantry, great. So much for lucky left.

A short ways through the opposite arch was a locked door with a small barred window. That was more like it. Wherever there were bars the dungeon couldn’t be far off. The bug flew through the bars into a hall with cages on either side. Filthy, gaunt women and children filled the cells. Once-fine clothes were torn and caked with dirt. The women held on to the little ones, trying to offer what comfort they could.

Four men sat around a rickety table, passing a bottle and playing cards. This must be where they stuck the lazy guards. Lucky for Damien, less lucky for the guards.

The spy flew to a bare section of wall and fused with it, changing color to blend in. Now Damien had a target, he just needed to hit it.

D
amien drew
a quarter of his power and conjured a digger. Nothing fancy, a crude body with massive arms ending in long claws. The construct burrowed down at an angle, flinging dirt behind it as it went. Once it dug a ways down, golden buckets formed to drag the dirt out of the tunnel followed by regular arches for support. Damien frowned as his constructs worked. This was taking a lot more power than he expected.

When the digger reached a depth Damien sensed was even with his marker he sent it straight toward the fortress. His constructs worked tirelessly, scraping away rock and dirt and spreading it out behind him. Foot by foot, hour by hour the tunnel grew, until sixteen hours later the digger reached solid rock.

Damien touched the stone and sensed his marker on the other side. By some miracle he’d ended up exactly where he wanted to be. He reabsorbed the digger and buckets and settled in to sleep. Damien had been awake for thirty-six hours straight and used up a good portion of his soul force. Five hours of sleep would clear his foggy head and regenerate his lost power. Though he was eager to free the prisoners as soon as possible, rushing into it in his condition would most likely end with all of them getting killed.

A hint of sunlight glinted at the far end of his tunnel when he woke. His core had fully regenerated and all he lacked was a hot breakfast to be at his peak. Not feeling optimistic about a hot meal Damien reconnected with his spy bug and had it shift back into insect shape.

A different set of guards appeared on the viewing rectangle. They sat at the table eating bowls of heaven only knew what. Damien pointed at the wall and used a lance of golden energy to slice a disk out of the stone. He pushed it in and the instant the guards came into view spears of light pierced them with barely a sound.

Damien strode through the opening into the dungeon. The stink almost knocked him over. Women crowded the bars of the cells. He held a finger to his lips and they obliged him by staying silent. Two slices opened the locked cells. Damien motioned them out and toward the tunnel. Some walked, others limped, and two of the kids had to be carried out. For his part Damien watched the door to the dungeon and eased over to the table.

Up close the contents of the bowls turned out to be sausage gravy. Damien conjured a spoon and devoured the contents of two bowls before the last prisoner entered the tunnel. He followed along behind and ten minutes later everyone stood in the oasis taking turns drinking from the well.

An older woman with sunken cheeks, dark, matted hair, and haunted eyes approached him. “You’re a kingdom sorcerer.”

“Yes, ma’am. Whose wife are you?”

“I’m Baroness Trasker. May I assume my husband sent you?”

“No, ma’am. The king sent me to deal with what he assumed were traitorous barons.” The energy from the tunnel supports ran out, causing it to collapse. Damien winced at the noise. “I only learned your location and situation a day ago. I assumed rescuing you would end the traitorous baron situation. Rescued hostages are a much better result than executed nobles.”

“Heaven’s blessing on you, boy. I don’t know how much longer we would have lasted in that pit.”

“My pleasure, ma’am. When everyone’s had a drink I’ll fly us out of here.”

E
xhausted
, sunburned, drenched in sweat, Baron Marris clung to the back of his trembling black gelding. The horse was on its last legs, but the fortress was in sight, close enough that he could make out the heavy, closed gate. The beast only had to last a little longer.

Yesterday—was it yesterday or the day before? Marris had lost track of time. Some time ago at any rate, Sloan had told him to ride ahead. The bandit leader said he’d stay behind, deal with the boy sorcerer, and catch up. Marris had seen nothing of the other man since.

Who would have guessed a sixteen-year-old brat and that skinny bitch of a diplomat could have so completely ruined his plans? He’d sacrificed everything to see the warlock’s plans through. Not that his shrew of a wife and the two screaming brats were a huge loss, nevertheless he expected to get something for their lives. Right now he’d take a cold pitcher of wine and a rare steak.

His mount stopped and shuddered. Marris freed his foot from the stirrup and fell off its back just before the beast collapsed. He squinted into the predawn gloom. Maybe a quarter mile to go. The baron staggered to his feet. He could make it.

Marris pounded on the heavy doors. The lookouts had to have seen him. They were just letting him stew for a few minutes, to show him what they thought of him. He knew a power play when he saw one. They’d all learn soon enough who was the master’s favorite.

A dull boom sounded from behind the doors a moment before they creaked open, just enough for him to slip inside. Blessedly cool air washed over Marris. A pair of rough men in soiled leathers with swords strapped to their backs pushed the doors closed and replaced the heavy bar.

Marris snapped his fingers. “Food and drink, now.”

The men shared a look and led him deeper into the bleak fortress. The baron trudged along behind them, head hanging, sweat pouring off his back. He wouldn’t give the bandits the satisfaction of collapsing. With grim determination Marris put one foot in front of the other until at last they reached the massive dining hall. Twenty people sat huddled together, heads down as they ate whatever passed for food in this place.

Marris turned to his guides. “Food. Drink. Now.”

He plopped down on the nearest bench and sighed. The hard wood felt as fine as the softest chair in his castle. The two bandits shuffled toward the kitchen to fetch his meal. Not the most enthusiastic servants, but under the circumstances he’d take it. Maris laid his head on the table and shut his eyes.

A minute later a bowl of some white glop, a pair of biscuits and a chipped ceramic cup of water clattered on the table in front of him. He looked at his servant and raised an eyebrow. “What is this rubbish and where is your partner?”

“Breakfast. Mick went to fetch the master.” So saying the unnamed bandit left him to his unappetizing meal.

Marris grimaced, but his empty stomach overruled his squeamishness. He dunked the biscuit in whatever the gravy was and popped it in his mouth. Surprised and pleased to find the mess edible Marris tucked in with a will. He’d nearly finished emptying the bowl and was considering who he could send for seconds when the clank of a heavy tread drew his attention.

A massive figure in black armor strode toward him, a horned skull engraved on his breastplate, the hilt of a sword jutting up by his shoulder. Marris’s lip curled. The warlock’s flunky, terrific. He’d hoped to find the master himself in residence, but wasn’t shocked that he was absent. The armored figure removed his demonic helm revealing the surprisingly human face underneath.

“What are you doing here?” the flunky asked.

“Watch your tone or the master will hear of it.”

The knight glowered down at Marris. “If you don’t have a good reason for abandoning your task the master will let me peel the skin from your body to make a new pair of gloves. Now speak!”

“Our business with the barons has failed. The king’s agents forced us to flee and I assume killed all the others.”

“Someone killed Sloan?”

“I assume so since he never caught up to me. The point is I can’t return to the kingdom now. I’ll be assuming command here. You’re welcome to serve as my subordinate.”

A thump followed by a vibration that ran through the floor cut short any reply the flunky might have made. He mashed his helm back over his head and stalked toward the rear exit. Curious, Marris heaved his bulk up and followed along behind.

They reached the dungeon and Marris stared at the empty cells. All the prisoners had vanished. Four dead guards lay on the floor and piles of dirt covered the stone near the back wall. “What happened?”

The flunky rounded on him. “Someone dug a tunnel into the dungeon and freed my prisoners. Any idea who might have done that?”

Marris thought of the boy sorcerer. “I have a fair idea. One of the king’s agents was a sorcerer. He pursued us and I suspect defeated Sloan and the others. Someone must have talked.”

The flunky roared at the ceiling, pulled his sword, and rammed it through Marris’s stomach. Pain became his whole world.

“If you can’t return to the kingdom, what good are you?”

The last thing Marris saw was a black boot descending toward his face.

M
arris’s skull
crunched most satisfyingly under Mikhail’s boot heel. Fat, useless worm. The master had made a grave error entrusting the incompetent baron with even the tiniest portion of this great task. Mikhail, no, Sir Darkness, had rectified that error.

Sir Darkness wiped the brains off his boot and stalked back up the stairs. Perhaps it would be best not to mention that the master had made an error in judgment with the baron. Sometimes the great warlock could be touchy about such comments. If he asked, Sir Darkness would simply say the baron had outlived his usefulness. Perhaps the escape of the prisoners could be pinned on him as well. The dead couldn’t defend themselves after all.

At the top of the steps one of his minions waited, head bowed, showing the proper respect. “My lord, what is the trouble?”

“The prisoners have escaped.”

“I’ll organize search teams at once.”

“No! I will deal with the prisoners and whoever took them myself. Keep everyone inside. It will be safer.”

“As you command, my lord.”

The Black Knight smiled behind his mask. That was the way he should be spoken to at all times. If his family had shown him such respect they might still be alive. But probably not. His father at least had to die in order for Sir Darkness to be born and rise to his current height. The rest were nothing but anchors holding him down. Better to cut them away so he could soar.

He reached the stables at the rear of the fortress. Horses snorted and whinnied in fear at his approach. Stupid beasts. Did they not realize what an honor it was to be chosen as the mount of Sir Darkness?

He dragged the first horse he came to out of its stall. The beast tried to resist, but it was no match for the strength granted him by his armor. When they reached the open center of the stable Sir Darkness poured corruption into the terrified horse. Its brown hair turned black and its eyes became flaming pits. The horse stopped fighting as the demonic power took control of it, bending the animal to his will and shaping it into an appropriate mount for Sir Darkness.

When the process was finished he grabbed a handful of its mane and swung up onto the horse’s back. At the far end of the stables a hidden door let them out into the desert. The moment they left the fortress his mount leapt into the air. Mikhail sensed many life forces a short distance away at one of the oases that dotted the badlands. His prisoners were there. He would either reclaim them or send their souls to hell.